felt better when he talked aloud to himself.
He went over to the nearest wrought iron table and took the whiskey glasses from it. He put the glasses on the floor, out of the way. When he found the ceramic top was detachable, he detached it and put it down beside the glasses. He hefted the iron base, took it back to the front door, and smashed in the window. He cleared away the jagged shards, reached inside, pushed the lacy curtains out of his way, felt for the lock, threw it open, and opened the door.
“Won't you come in, Mr. Amslow?” he asked himself.
“Why, thank you,” he told himself. “I will.”
Three feet inside the front door, the house ended in a blank, cement wall. The room in which he stood extended only three feet on either side, hardly large enough for him to turn around in; the whole damn house contained eighteen square feet of living space. He did manage to turn, however, and he looked up at the timbers, beams, and braces that held the false front of the house in place. He could not see much of the construction details in this dim light, but he saw more than enough to be convinced that the entire street was probably a fake, an enormous stage setting in the most fundamental sense.
Why?
He stood in the open door, leaned against the frame, and surveyed the porch, the lawn, the open street, and the dark woods across the way. Nothing moved. So far as he could tell, no one was out there waiting for him.
“Are you watching me, Galing?” he asked.
Silence.
“Hidden camera and microphones?” he asked.
He thought that he was on his own, that Galing didn't know where he was. But he couldn't take anything for granted now. The worst paranoia fears could prove to be true.
Anything could happen.
“Well,” he said softly, “if you are listening, you'd better come after me right away with your hypodermic gloves. I'm starting to get the goods on you. Before you know it, I'm going to have you and this crazy place figured.”
He suddenly decided that it was healthy to stand here talking to himself. He went across the porch, down the steps, and over to the open ground between this house and the next. He wanted to know why he hadn't seen the cement wall that surely lay between them. Even close up to it, he seemed to be staring at a vista of lawns and other houses on parallel streets, the winking red warning lights on a distant radio tower . . . He turned, searched the shrubs that grew between the houses, and in a minute he located the hologram projectors. When he kicked these part, the pretty pictures ceased to be and were replaced by a plain cement wall.
Now he was getting somewhere.
But he didn't know just where in the hell he was getting.
XVI
He trotted up the empty street to the intersection, turned the corner, and saw the wrecked fan shuttle. It was upside-down, on its roof as he remembered it, crumpled against the big willow tree.
A smashed picket fence lay across the road like the vertebrae of a reptilian fossil. Four or five quarts of oil had leaked out of the shuttle and now lay in thick pools on the pavement, congealing like blood.
He stood with his hands on his hips for a few minutes, taking it all in, and then he walked down to have a closer look. He leaned in the open driver's door and had an immediate, vivid flash of the accident.
Here was irrefutable proof that the illusions had not been illusions at all—unless, of course, he was now in the same dream he had suffered through before.
He turned away from the car, angry with himself. What in the hell was the matter with him?
Was he a moron or something? He was, at long last, uncovering the truth behind the stage settings, and he should have begun to make sense of it. Not much, maybe. But a little bit, anyway.
Obviously, he was still in the windowless building where he had originally awakened from the life support pod. It was an enormous place, and it had been dressed up to fool him. But the dressings were very shabby duds, capable of
He went over to the nearest wrought iron table and took the whiskey glasses from it. He put the glasses on the floor, out of the way. When he found the ceramic top was detachable, he detached it and put it down beside the glasses. He hefted the iron base, took it back to the front door, and smashed in the window. He cleared away the jagged shards, reached inside, pushed the lacy curtains out of his way, felt for the lock, threw it open, and opened the door.
“Won't you come in, Mr. Amslow?” he asked himself.
“Why, thank you,” he told himself. “I will.”
Three feet inside the front door, the house ended in a blank, cement wall. The room in which he stood extended only three feet on either side, hardly large enough for him to turn around in; the whole damn house contained eighteen square feet of living space. He did manage to turn, however, and he looked up at the timbers, beams, and braces that held the false front of the house in place. He could not see much of the construction details in this dim light, but he saw more than enough to be convinced that the entire street was probably a fake, an enormous stage setting in the most fundamental sense.
Why?
He stood in the open door, leaned against the frame, and surveyed the porch, the lawn, the open street, and the dark woods across the way. Nothing moved. So far as he could tell, no one was out there waiting for him.
“Are you watching me, Galing?” he asked.
Silence.
“Hidden camera and microphones?” he asked.
He thought that he was on his own, that Galing didn't know where he was. But he couldn't take anything for granted now. The worst paranoia fears could prove to be true.
Anything could happen.
“Well,” he said softly, “if you are listening, you'd better come after me right away with your hypodermic gloves. I'm starting to get the goods on you. Before you know it, I'm going to have you and this crazy place figured.”
He suddenly decided that it was healthy to stand here talking to himself. He went across the porch, down the steps, and over to the open ground between this house and the next. He wanted to know why he hadn't seen the cement wall that surely lay between them. Even close up to it, he seemed to be staring at a vista of lawns and other houses on parallel streets, the winking red warning lights on a distant radio tower . . . He turned, searched the shrubs that grew between the houses, and in a minute he located the hologram projectors. When he kicked these part, the pretty pictures ceased to be and were replaced by a plain cement wall.
Now he was getting somewhere.
But he didn't know just where in the hell he was getting.
XVI
He trotted up the empty street to the intersection, turned the corner, and saw the wrecked fan shuttle. It was upside-down, on its roof as he remembered it, crumpled against the big willow tree.
A smashed picket fence lay across the road like the vertebrae of a reptilian fossil. Four or five quarts of oil had leaked out of the shuttle and now lay in thick pools on the pavement, congealing like blood.
He stood with his hands on his hips for a few minutes, taking it all in, and then he walked down to have a closer look. He leaned in the open driver's door and had an immediate, vivid flash of the accident.
Here was irrefutable proof that the illusions had not been illusions at all—unless, of course, he was now in the same dream he had suffered through before.
He turned away from the car, angry with himself. What in the hell was the matter with him?
Was he a moron or something? He was, at long last, uncovering the truth behind the stage settings, and he should have begun to make sense of it. Not much, maybe. But a little bit, anyway.
Obviously, he was still in the windowless building where he had originally awakened from the life support pod. It was an enormous place, and it had been dressed up to fool him. But the dressings were very shabby duds, capable of
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